The time came when Philip was wanted. Amabel had called in Anne and the clergyman"s brother, and went to fetch her cousin. He was where she had left him in the sitting-room, his face hidden in his arms, crossed on the table, the whole man crushed, bowed down, overwhelmed with remorse.

"We are ready. Come, Philip."

"I cannot; I am not worthy," he answered, not looking up.

"Nay, you are surely in no uncharitableness with him now," said she, gently.

A shudder expressed his no.

"And if you are sorry--that is repentance--more fit now than ever--Won"t you come? Would you grieve him now?"

"You take it on yourself, then," said Philip, almost sharply, raising his haggard face.

She did not shrink, and answered, "A broken and contrite heart, O G.o.d, Thou wilt not despise."

It was a drop of balm, a softening drop. He rose, and trembling from head to foot, from the excess of his agitation, followed her into Guy"s room.

The rite was over, and stillness succeeded the low tones, while all knelt in their places. Amabel arose first, for Guy, though serene, looked greatly exhausted, and as she sprinkled him with vinegar, the others stood up. Guy looked for Philip, and held out his hand. Whether it was his gentle force, or of Philip"s own accord Amabel could not tell; but as he lay with that look of perfect peace and love, Philip bent down over him and kissed his forehead.

"Thank you!" he faintly whispered. "Good night. G.o.d bless you and my sister."

Philip went, and he added to Amy, "Poor fellow! It will be worse for him than for you. You must take care of him."

She hardly heard the last words, for his head sunk on one side in a deathlike faintness, the room was cleared of all but herself, and Anne fetched the physician at once.

At length it pa.s.sed off, and Guy slept. The doctor felt his pulse, and she asked his opinion of it. Very low and unequal, she was told: his strength was failing, and there seemed to be no power of rallying it, but they must do their best to support him with cordials, according to the state of his pulse. The physician could not remain all night himself, but would come as soon as he could on the following day.

Amabel hardly knew when it was that he went away; the two Mr. Morrises went to the other hotel; and she made her evening visit to Philip. It was all like a dream, which she could afterwards scarcely remember, till night had come on, and for the first time she found herself allowed to keep watch over her husband.

He had slept quietly for some time, when she roused him to give him some wine, as she was desired to do constantly. He smiled, and said, "Is no one here but you?"

"No one."

"My own sweet wife, my Verena, as you have always been. We have been very happy together."

"Indeed we have," said she, a look of suffering crossing her face, as she thought of their unclouded happiness. "It will not be so long before we meet again."

"A few months, perhaps"--said Amabel, in a stifled voice, "like your mother--"

"No, don"t wish that, Amy. You would not wish it to have no mother."

"You will pray--" She could say no more, but struggled for calmness.

"Yes," he answered, "I trust you to it and to mamma for comfort. And Charlie--I shall not rob him any longer. I only borrowed you for a little while," he added, smiling. "In a little while we shall meet.

Years and months seem alike now. I am sorry to cause you so much grief, my Amy, but it is all as it should be, and we have been very happy."

Amy listened, her eyes intently fixed on him, unable to repress her agitation, except by silence. After some little time, he spoke again.

"My love to Charlie--and Laura--and Charlotte, my brother and sisters.

How kindly they have made me one of them! I need not ask Charlotte to take care of Bustle, and your father will ride Deloraine. My love to him, and earnest thanks, for you above all, Amy. And dear mamma! I must look now to meeting her in a brighter world; but tell her how I have felt all her kindness since I first came in my strangeness and grief.

How kind she was! how she helped me and led me, and made me know what a mother was. Amy, it will not hurt you to hear it was your likeness to her that first taught me to love you. I have been so very happy, I don"t understand it."

He was again silent, as in contemplation, and Amabel"s overcoming emotion had been calmed and chastened down again, now that it was no longer herself that was spoken of. Both were still, and he seemed to sleep a little. When next he spoke, it was to ask if she could repeat their old favourite lines in "Sintram". They came to her lips, and she repeated them in a low, steady voice.

When death, is coming near, And thy heart shrinks in fear, And thy limbs fail, Then raise thy hands and pray To Him who smooths the way Through the dark vale.

Seest thou the eastern dawn!

Hear"st thou, in the red morn, The angel"s song?

Oh! lift thy drooping head, Thou, who in gloom and dread Hast lain so long.

Death comes to set thee free, Oh! meet him cheerily, As thy true friend And all thy fears shall cease, And In eternal peace Thy penance end.

"In eternal peace," repeated Guy; "I did not think it would have been so soon. I can"t think where the battle has been. I never thought my life could be so bright. It was a foolish longing, when first I was ill, for the cool waves of Redclyffe bay and that shipwreck excitement, if I was to die. This is far better. Read me a psalm, Amy, "Out of the deep.""

There was something in his perfect happiness that would not let her grieve, though a dull heavy sense of consternation was growing on her.

So it went on through the night--not a long, nor a dreary one--but more like a dream. He dozed and woke, said a few tranquil words, and listened to some prayer, psalm, or verse, then slept again, apparently without suffering, except when he tried to take the cordials, and this he did with such increasing difficulty, that she hardly knew how to bear to cause him so much pain, though it was the last lingering hope. He strove to swallow them, each time with the mechanical "Thank you," so affecting when thus spoken; but at last he came to, "It is of no use; I cannot."

Then she knew all hope was gone, and sat still, watching him. The darkness lessened, and twilight came. He slept, but his breath grew short, and unequal; and as she wiped the moisture on his brow, she knew it was the death-damp.

Morning light came on--the church bell rang out matins--the white hills were tipped with rosy light. His pulse was almost gone--his hand was cold. At last he opened his eyes. "Amy! he said, as if bewildered, or in pain.

"Here, dearest!"

"I don"t see."

At that moment the sun was rising, and the light streamed in at the open window, and over the bed; but it was "another dawn than ours" that he beheld as his most beautiful of all smiles beamed over his face, and he said, "Glory in the Highest!--peace--goodwill"--A struggle for breath gave an instant"s look of pain, then he whispered so that she could but just hear--"The last prayer." She read the Commendatory Prayer. She knew not the exact moment, but even as she said "Amen" she perceived it was over. The soul was with Him with whom dwell the spirits of just men made perfect; and there lay the earthly part with a smile on the face. She closed the dark fringed eyelids--saw him look more beautiful than in sleep--then, laying her face down on the bed, she knelt on. She took no heed of time, no heed of aught that was earthly. How long she knelt she never knew, but she was roused by Anne"s voice in a frightened sob--"My lady, my lady--come away! Oh, Miss Amabel, you should not be here."

She lifted her head, and Anne afterwards told Mary Ross, "she should never forget how my lady looked. It was not grief: it was as if she had been a little way with her husband, and was just called back."

She rose--looked at his face again--saw Arnaud was at hand--let Anne lead her into the next room, and shut the door.

CHAPTER 36

The matron who alone has stood When not a prop seemed left below, The first lorn hour of widowhood, Yet, cheered and cheering all the while, With sad but unaffected, smile.

--CHRISTIAN YEAR

The four months" wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him, that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her mourning and desolate.

Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a strong man forced to give way.

"Philip!" thought she; and withal Guy"s words returned--"It will be worse for him than for you. Take care of him."

"I must go to him," said she at once.